I should have gone straight home that night.
I didn’t.
The campus was almost empty by the time I reached the athletic center. Rain had been falling since late afternoon, the kind that soaks through your jacket and makes your socks stick to your feet. My sneakers squeaked on the tiled floor as I pushed through the double doors. The gym smelled like old rubber mats and the faint chlorine from the pool down the hall. Overhead lights buzzed in that tired way they do after ten p.m.
Catherine had texted me at eight. Short, professional. “Gym closes at eleven. Meet me by the free weights if you still want the session.” I almost ignored it. I was twenty-one, drowning in her British Literature survey, and the last thing I needed was more time alone with the woman who’d been quietly ruining my sleep for months. But my midterm was in four days and my grade was a disaster.
She’d been my professor for two semesters. Catherine Vale. Forty-one, I knew from the faculty page I definitely hadn’t looked up more than once. Dark auburn hair she kept in a low bun during lectures, loose waves on days she seemed more relaxed. Green eyes that caught the light when she got passionate about a text. She had a habit of touching her left wrist when she was thinking, like she was checking a watch that wasn’t there. Her voice carried this calm authority that made the whole lecture hall lean in.
I told myself it was just academic crush. The kind every student gets. She wore soft sweaters that hugged her curves without trying, pencil skirts that showed strong legs from years of running. When she laughed at a student’s joke it was low and genuine, the corners of her eyes crinkling. I sat in the back row and tried not to stare. Tried not to imagine what it would be like if she looked at me like that outside of class.
My apartment was a mess of empty ramen cups and unread essays. The rain outside my window that evening had made everything feel smaller, heavier. I’d reheated leftover roasted chicken from the night before, eaten it standing over the sink while staring at my phone. Her last email about office hours had been polite but pointed. “You’re capable of better. Let’s discuss extra help.”
So I went. The gym was deserted except for a lone janitor mopping near the entrance. He nodded at me without interest. I found her near the dumbbell rack. She was in black leggings and an oversized university hoodie, hair pulled back in a ponytail. No makeup that I could see, just the faint flush from whatever warm-up she’d done. She looked younger than she did in class. More approachable. More dangerous.
“Thanks for coming,” she said, voice echoing a little in the empty space. “I know it’s late.”
“No problem,” I lied. My pulse was already doing something stupid.
We started with discussion questions about Milton. She had me summarize passages while I did shoulder presses. The weights felt heavier than usual. Every time I set the bar down she was watching me with that focused look, the one she gave during office hours when a student finally got it. The rain tapped against the high windows. The lights flickered once, then steadied.
After twenty minutes she suggested we move to the stretching area. Mats on the floor, mirrors on two walls. I sat across from her, legs extended, trying to ignore how close her knee was to mine. She handed me a printed sheet of essay prompts. Her fingers brushed mine. Neither of us said anything about it.
The first tension beat came when she asked me to read a paragraph aloud. My voice cracked on a line about forbidden knowledge. She tilted her head, that signature gesture of hers, touching her wrist.
“You’ve been distracted in class lately,” she said quietly. Not accusatory. Just observing. “Is everything all right at home?”
I shrugged, suddenly aware of the sweat on my back. The gym smelled stronger here, like cleaning solution and the faint vanilla from whatever lotion she used. “Just… a lot going on.”
She nodded slowly. Her green eyes held mine a beat too long. Something shifted in the air between us. I noticed the way her hoodie had slipped off one shoulder, revealing the strap of a sports bra. The small freckle just above her collarbone. She knew I noticed. I could tell by the way she didn’t pull the fabric back up right away.
“You’re not the only one,” she murmured. Then she stood up and walked to the water fountain, leaving me sitting there with my heart hammering against my ribs. I should have packed my bag. I should have thanked her for the help and left before the janitor locked up.
I didn’t.
When she came back she sat closer. Our knees touched this time. She didn’t move hers away. The conversation drifted from Paradise Lost to something more personal. She asked about my plans after graduation. I asked why she’d chosen teaching. She told me about her divorce five years ago, how the quiet of an empty house had driven her to take night classes herself once. Her voice softened on the details. I listened like my life depended on it.
The lights in the far corner of the gym clicked off automatically. Only the ones above us remained, casting long shadows across the mats. She glanced at her phone. “They’re about to close the building.”
Instead of gathering her things she stood and walked to the double doors near the entrance. I watched her flip the lock. The metallic click echoed. My mouth went dry.
She came back slowly, like she was giving me time to say something. Anything. “I have a question that’s been killing me for years,” she said, stopping a foot away. Her cheeks were flushed now, not from exercise. “And I need an answer tonight. Before I talk myself out of asking.”
I swallowed hard. The rain outside had turned to a steady drum. “What is it?”
She sat down again, this time facing me directly on the mat. Her legs folded under her. The hoodie was definitely off one shoulder now. “Do you think about me the way I think about you?”
The words hung there. I felt my face heat. My hands started shaking where they rested on my thighs. This was my professor. This was Catherine Vale, the woman whose lectures I replayed in my head, the one who graded my papers with careful red ink and the occasional encouraging note. And she was looking at me like she was terrified of my answer.
“Yes,” I admitted. My voice came out rough. “All the time.”
She let out a breath that sounded like relief mixed with something sharper. Her hand reached out and touched my knee. Not casually. Deliberately. Her fingers were warm through my track pants.
“Good,” she whispered. “Because I can’t keep pretending in that lecture hall anymore.”
That was the moment the usual rules broke. We weren’t professor and student sitting on a mat anymore. We were two adults who’d been circling each other for months in a building that was now locked from the inside. The air felt thicker. I could smell the rain on her skin, the faint trace of her shampoo.
She didn’t kiss me right away. Instead she traced a slow circle on my knee with her thumb, eyes never leaving mine. “Tell me to stop and I will. Right now.”
“I don’t want you to stop,” I said. My heart was so loud I was sure she could hear it.
Her smile was small and crooked, the first time I’d seen her look anything less than composed. She leaned in. Our noses bumped awkwardly before our lips met. She tasted like the mint gum she’d been chewing earlier. The kiss was tentative at first, then deeper when I cupped the back of her neck. Her hair was soft against my fingers. She made a small sound in her throat, something between a sigh and a laugh.
When we pulled apart she was breathing faster. “This is insane,” she said, but she was smiling. “I’m old enough to know better.”
“You’re beautiful,” I told her. It slipped out before I could think. She blushed, actually blushed, and looked away for a second.
The escalation happened in stages. She tugged at the hem of my t-shirt. I helped her pull it over my head. The cool gym air raised goosebumps on my skin. Her hands explored my chest like she was memorizing it. I reached for her hoodie. She lifted her arms without hesitation. Underneath she wore a simple black sports bra that did nothing to hide how her nipples had hardened. I stared. She noticed.
“Touch me,” she said softly. Not a command. A request. Her voice had dropped an octave.
I did. My hands shook as I traced the curve of her waist, the softness of her stomach. She was fit but real, with the kind of body that came from years of careful living. When I brushed my thumbs over her breasts through the fabric she arched into me. Her mouth found mine again, hungrier this time.
She pushed me gently onto my back on the mat. Straddled my hips. The weight of her felt perfect. Her ponytail had come half loose, strands of auburn hair framing her face. She rocked against me once, testing. I groaned. The thin material between us did nothing to hide how hard I was.
“We probably shouldn’t do this here,” she whispered, even as her hips moved again. “Someone could still be in the building.”
“You locked the door,” I reminded her. My hands gripped her thighs.
She laughed quietly, a nervous sound. “I did, didn’t I?” Then she reached back and unhooked her bra. It fell away. Her breasts were fuller than I’d imagined, pale with faint stretch marks that only made her more real. I sat up enough to take one in my mouth. She gasped, fingers threading through my hair.
“Like that,” she breathed. “God, just like that.”
We stayed like that for what felt like forever. Kissing, touching, learning the sounds the other made. She told me she’d noticed me the first week of class. How I’d sit in the back with my notebook, chewing my pen cap when I was concentrating. How she’d caught herself wondering what my hands would feel like. I confessed I’d jerked off thinking about her voice more times than I could count. She didn’t judge. She just kissed me harder.
Clothing disappeared in pieces. My pants. Her leggings. Her underwear was simple cotton, damp at the crotch. I touched her there and she shuddered. She was wet, hot, and when I slid a finger inside her she clenched around me with a soft curse.
“Condom,” she said suddenly, pulling back. “In my bag. Please tell me you want this as much as I do.”
“I do,” I said immediately. “More.”
She retrieved it. Her hands trembled a little opening the packet. I watched her roll it onto me, her green eyes dark with want. The mirrors on the wall reflected us back. It looked surreal. My professor, naked and straddling me on a gym mat while rain hammered the windows.
When she sank down onto me we both exhaled. She was tight, warmer than I expected. Her head fell back as she took me fully. I gripped her hips, trying not to thrust up too fast. She set the pace, slow rolls that built gradually. Her breasts moved with each motion. I reached up to cup them and she covered my hands with hers.
“You feel so good,” she whispered. “Better than I imagined.”
She came first, surprisingly fast. Her rhythm faltered and she pressed her face into my neck, body shaking. I felt her pulse around me, heard the small broken sounds she made. It pushed me over the edge seconds later. I held her tight as I spilled into the condom, groaning her name against her hair.
We stayed connected for a long time after, breathing together. The gym lights buzzed overhead. Her skin was slick against mine. Eventually she lifted her head and kissed me softly.
“I don’t regret this,” she said. “Do you?”
“Not even a little.”
She smiled, but there was something sad in it. “We can’t do this on campus again. Ever.”
I nodded. We cleaned up quietly. She found wipes in her bag. We dressed in silence broken only by small laughs when our eyes met. The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time we left. She unlocked the door and we slipped out like nothing had happened.
But everything had.
That was the first full intimate scene. What came after, hours later in my apartment, was different. Deeper. She followed me home in her car. We didn’t speak much on the drive. When we got inside my messy space she looked around at the takeout containers and scattered papers with a soft smile.
“This is very… you,” she said.
I offered her a beer from the fridge. She took it. We sat on my couch, the same one with the worn cushion where I’d fallen asleep studying her class notes. The television was off. The only light came from a lamp with a crooked shade. Outside, a car passed, headlights sweeping across the walls.
She kicked off her shoes. Her hair was down now, falling around her shoulders. She looked younger again. Vulnerable.
“I haven’t been with anyone since my divorce,” she confessed after her second sip. “Not really. A few dates that went nowhere. I told myself it was because I was focused on work. But the truth is… I kept comparing them to this idea of you I had in my head.”
I set my beer down. My hand found hers. “I’ve had girlfriends. None of them lasted. I think part of me was always waiting for something I couldn’t name.”
She squeezed my fingers. “This can’t be a relationship. I’m your professor. The ethics…”
“I know.” But neither of us moved away.
The second encounter happened in my bedroom. Slower this time. We undressed each other completely, taking time to explore. I learned the small scar on her hip from a hiking accident. She traced the birthmark on my shoulder. Her mouth was patient on my skin. When she took me in her mouth I had to grip the sheets to keep from losing it too soon. She looked up at me with those green eyes and I nearly came right there.
“Tell me what you want,” she said, pulling back. Her lips were wet. Voice husky.
“You,” I answered simply. “All of you.”
She climbed on top again but this time we faced each other the whole time. Her hands braced on my chest. I thrust up gently, letting her control the depth. It felt different in my bed. More intimate. The sheets smelled like my laundry detergent and now her skin. She rode me with long, deliberate strokes, eyes locked on mine.
Halfway through she leaned down and whispered against my ear. “I think about you when I touch myself at home. In my office between classes sometimes. Is that terrible?”
“No,” I groaned. “It’s perfect.”
She came again, quieter this time, forehead pressed to mine. Her body trembled through it. I followed right after, holding her close as the pleasure rolled through both of us. Afterward we lay tangled together. Her head on my chest. My fingers combing through her hair.
She told me more then. About how lonely the last few years had been. How teaching kept her going but left little room for anything else. I admitted my jealousy of the male students who lingered after class. We laughed about it. Cried a little too, though neither of us would admit it later. The clock on my nightstand ticked past two a.m. The leftover chicken in the fridge would probably go bad. None of it mattered.
Eventually she fell asleep in my arms. I stayed awake watching the rise and fall of her breathing. In the morning she’d have to leave before anyone on campus could see. We’d go back to professor and student in the lecture hall. But for those hours she was just Catherine. Just a woman who had taken a risk on a much younger man because one question had finally demanded an answer.
The next weeks were careful. Stolen glances during class. Emails that said nothing but meant everything. One more night in a motel outside town when she had a conference. But nothing like that first time in the locked gym or the second in my small apartment.
I passed her class with a B plus. She wrote a note on the final paper. “Proud of the work you put in. Keep going.” Nothing anyone else would read twice. But I knew what it meant.
At the end of the semester she announced she was taking a sabbatical. Something about research in London. Students speculated. I didn’t. On the last day of finals she slipped a note into my backpack when no one was looking. Just an address and a time. I went.
It was a small cafe near the airport. She was leaving the next morning. We drank terrible coffee and held hands under the table. She looked tired but peaceful. Her hair was in the low bun again. Professional Catherine.
“I won’t contact you while I’m gone,” she said. “But if you’re still thinking about me when I get back… maybe we can figure something out. Off campus. After you graduate.”
I nodded. My throat was tight. “I’d like that.”
She kissed my cheek before she left. Soft. Quick. The kind of kiss that could have been between friends. But her fingers lingered on my wrist a second longer than necessary.
That night in my apartment I found the glass she’d used the second time she came over. I’d washed it but the faint smear of her lipstick remained on the rim. A soft coral color that caught the kitchen light just so. I didn’t wash it again. I left it on the windowsill where the morning sun would hit it.
Some mornings I still catch myself staring at that faint mark. Wondering if she’ll come back. Wondering what I’ll say if she does.